


drift

by damnmechanics (emmamanic)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Adrenaline junkie!Clarke, Alternate Universe - Racing, F/F, F/M, Freeform, M/M, bellarke is endgame, clexa is involved, the drag racer au you never wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmamanic/pseuds/damnmechanics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>drift (n)</b>- a continuous movement from one place to another<br/><b>drift (v)</b>-a really fun way to fuck up your tires</p><p> <br/><i> “It’s simple,” Bellamy says, pointing to the track. “It’s not about the drift, it’s about the mindset.”</i><br/> <br/><i> “I swear, if this is a metaphor for life, I’m going to kill you." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	drift

 

_Three_

Fingers grip tight on the custom-made leather steering wheel, pulsing against the colors of the lights flashing from the stands.

_Two_

Deep breath, in- out.

_One_

Heart’s stopped, resounding around the dark strip of asphalt-

**_Go_ **

Clarke Griffin slams her foot on the gas and takes off like there’s no tomorrow.

 

 

She remembers the first time she’d ever driven; fourteen-year-old-Clarke’s hair was in a tight braid and her hands were white as her New Balance sneakers. She wasn’t scared, though, because she was Jake Griffin’s daughter, and Jake Griffin was a phenomenal driver- ask anyone.

“Holding the wheel tight enough, kiddo?” Clarke heard her dad laugh as she stared straight ahead.

“Safety first,” Clarke said shakily, then let out a deep breath.

“It’s okay to be scared-”

“I’m not scared!”

The words came out too quick as Clarke slammed her foot on the brakes for the approaching red light- that is, the red light that was still three hundred feet away. Her father let out another chuckle.

“You’ve got this, princess,” he said, smiling under his breath as the light turned green and Clarke started again after a false start. “You’ve got this.”

And he was right. Of course, it took a few wrong turns and more than a few close calls, but driving became a second language to Clarke- she knew the hum of an engine better than she knew some of her closest friends. Clarke had gotten the hang of it quicker than she’d gotten a hold of painting, and within a few months, she was a pro.

“You’re getting as good as me!” Jake Griffin used to joke as Clarke parked the car with lightning accuracy. “I don’t think you’re the princess anymore.”

“I’m not?” She asked him, unbuckling and taking the keys out of the ignition.

“Nope,” Clarke’s father smiled at her. “You’re the queen.”

Fifteen months later, he was buying her first car. Clarke bounced on her heels, now fitted with black converse because almost-sixteen-year-old-Clarke was all about change. They picked out the shiny orange 67’ Camaro together, and she could barely wait to get home and tell mom. Her birthday was in two days, and this- this was a hell of a present.

Of course, she never got it. Jake Griffin, too young and brimming with life, died the next day in a car crash, but she tries not to think about that part.

And yes, she sees the irony.

 

Clarke supposes time passes from then on, but she doesn’t really notice. She goes through the motions, plays the part, sure, but her heart’s not in it. A little more than seven years go by and she still won’t sit in the driver’s seat.

Twenty-three-year-old Clarke is not someone who wears braids and smiles- no, she’s a new Clarke. This one has a dead father and an alcoholic mother, but Clarke can’t really blame her for that. After all, Clarke wasn’t the one who saw the accident from the passenger’s side.

Twenty-three-year-old-Clarke is a socialite and an advocate. Twenty-three-year-old-Clarke has a driver and wears her father’s watch. Twenty-three-year-old-Clarke doesn’t know who she is.

It comes through in the nights, mostly, because the wind is loud and her head is heavy and she’s taken the pearls off because honestly, she hates the pearls.

She takes up exercise, because it makes her heart pound, and that’s something.

Mostly she runs. Back roads, at dusk when she can’t sleep.

Clarke’s jogging at night in a ponytail and a hoodie far, far away from home with her headphones planted firmly in her eardrums - _for the day I die, imma touch the sky_ \- when she hears something, louder than her thoughts. She pulls out one bud and hears, clearer now; the hum of an engine, roaring, spilling over like an ocean… and she follows it.

There’s maybe half a mile of concrete between her and the source of the sound, and when she reaches it, she’s in standstill.

It’s a street race.

The air smells like burning rubber and there’s at least thirty people milling around, watching the two cars locked in mortal combat, and suddenly, Clarke’s eight years old again.

 

 _“Daddy, why do the cars go so fast?"_

_Clarke’s on her dad’s shoulders and she feels like she could reach up and grab the stars._

_“They’re racing. It’s a game.” Jake is happy, Clarke can feel it in his shoulders._

_“Like soccer?” Clarke loves soccer._

_“Sort of,” he says, rubbing her arms to warm her in the chilly fall air. “Only they don’t tell people about this kind.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because they’re are afraid of how fast the cars go,” teased Jake, as Clarke giggled._

_“I’m not!” She said, eyes wide as the cars began another lap. There was something stirring inside her, something her eight-year-old-self determined to be happiness like she'd never felt before._

_"I like them.”_

He had only taken her once, but the imprint stuck in her mind. She remembers the smell of it- falling leaves, a crisp chill to the air that wasn’t there this time. It makes her stop for a moment, and something like a tear forms in one of her eyes before she notices. A sleeve of her hoodie wipes it away just as fast. For the first time in a long time, Clarke Griffin doesn’t know what to think.

She knew her dad raced, but had never seen it- this, this is another animal entirely. It’s fast, and it’s loud, and it’s not a memory turned rosy with age. This is more adrenaline and action, and Clarke is eating it up.

There’s a flash to her left and she turns, noticing the shine on the side of one of the cars. It brings back memories, more, and she really doesn’t need that- Clarke feels like she can’t breathe, so she pushes it down, deciding instead to turn her attention to the race, when she realizes a song is still in her ears.

Clarke pulls her phone out of her pocket to pause the music. She’s transfixed for a moment -- caught up in it all -- but it’s broken when she stumbles, just slightly, and her phone falls and cracks on the gravel. Figures.

Clarke picks up the phone and starts to inspect the front screen, now sporting thousands of hairline fractures across.

“Tough break,” a voice says to her left. “Shouldn’t be too hard to fix, though.”

Clarke turns and notices a girl with a long brown ponytail and red leather jacket. There’s a grease stain on her arm and a brace on her leg, but the way she’s standing makes it seem like she could climb Mount Everest without getting fazed.

“I hope so,” Clarke responds, but is interrupted by a loud _screech_ of tires on the road. She’s visibly startled, and the girl smiles.

“First time, huh?”

“No.” The word is tense, clipped, and Clarke can’t help it.

“But it’s been a long time,” she adds, trying to remain amicable- no reason to offend a stranger. The girl, however, doesn’t seem offended in the slightest, and makes no effort to move away. There’s silence for a moment as both girls watch the cars, and then-

“Raven Reyes,” the girl sticks out her hand, and Clarke shakes it.

“Clarke.”

“What do you drive?” Raven asks.

“I don’t,” Clarke answers. A beat passes. “But I’m thinking maybe I should start.”

“If it’s a car you’re looking for, I’ve got a shop,” Raven says, interest in her eye. “Casual or racing?”

“I’ve never raced before, but…” Clarke trails off as she looks at the race ahead of her, now with two new drivers, and shivers.

“I know what you mean,” Raven grins like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ve seen people from all over get the look- you’ve got the same look in your eye.”

“Do I?” Clarke says, absentmindedly- not a common Clarke Griffin trait.

“You should stop by the shop sometime,” Raven says, pulling a pen out of her pocket that probably hasn’t seen its cap since it was acquired. “Your hand?”

Clarke complies and Raven scribbles something on it, something like _402 Jaha Rd_ , but Raven’s hurrying and writing it backwards and Clarke figures she’ll have a better chance reading it during the daylight and not while the dusk is filtering out of the tree line.

“Thanks,” she smiles, and means it. Friends are hard to come by. She’ll take anything she can get.

Raven nods and turns back to the new drivers. Apparently someone important is taking a seat - some big guy with light hair - because Raven starts cheering like there’s no tomorrow and Clarke feels, with sudden urgency, that she doesn’t belong here.

She waves at Raven, who nods back, and then Clarke starts the long jog back home. It takes reaching her front door before she realizes- she doesn’t belong on the sidelines. That’s why she felt isolated.

No, Clarke Griffin belongs in the race.

 

-

 

Clarke visits Raven the next weekend. She finds the place fairly easily despite the smudging on her hand- at least, Miller finds the place pretty easily. Miller is her driver, a quiet man who rolls his eyes a lot, but Clarke likes him. Besides, driving with him is the only way she can really get anywhere if she doesn’t want to walk.

“Just wait out here,” Clarke says when they arrive, popping her head into the rolled-down front window. “I should be out in a few.”

“Aye aye, Capt.,” Miller says, without a hint of emotion in his voice. Clarke grins and heads for the front door of the shop, opening it too hard on her first try. There’s a sign above the door- Reyes Mechanics - and it jingles as she walks in.

She feels horribly overdressed in her khakis and pressed collared shirt, but there isn’t really anything to be done about that. She’d probably feel overdressed in anything other than oil-stained overalls, really, because the shop has the same vibe that its owner does- busy. Brick columns hold up a ceiling that seemed ready to fall through and the whirring of metal never really stops.

A couple of people are in the store already. A cashier with shoulder-length brown hair flips through a magazine, giving Clarke a smile as she glances over. The guy from the race is there, too, helping a small Asian and a kid with goggles fix some kind of engine.

“Is Raven here?” She asks, tentatively, to no one in particular. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the kid with goggles seems to register, or at least flinches, and pulls up.

“RAVEN,” he calls out, still focused on the engine in front of him, “Someone’s here for you.”

“In the back!” A voice yells back over the din of machinery. Clarke follows the sound, walking back past piles of metal and machinery until she reaches the back and sees a masked Raven through sparks.

The girl is using some kind of tool that looks heavy, hot, and incredibly dangerous with expert precision. Her whole body is tensed, arms bent and hair sweaty as she leans over the table like a surgeon. Still, she turns at the sound of Clarke’s footsteps.

“Clarke!” Raven pulls up her welder’s helmet to reveal a wide grin. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” Clarke says, smiling besides herself. Raven has that energy.

“So, what’re you here for?” Raven continues, setting a welding tool down on a steel table and pulling heavy gloves off of her hands.

“I need a car-“ Clarke starts, but Raven cuts her off.

“I figured that- a racer, right?”

“I haven’t driven in a while, so I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Raven cocks her head. “I can see it in your eyes. You want to race.”

Clarke steels for a second. Racing brings up memories, and not all good ones. Fast cars and low lights- that’s how she lost her father. And it’s not like she’s been practicing all these years, she might not even be good at driving anymore. But still, there’s something there. Something that makes her heart pound and makes her crazy enough to say-

“Sure, why not?”

Raven’s eyes light up as Clarke’s stomach turns, but not in a bad way.

“I knew it! Here, I’ll help you pick one out,” Raven starts walking purposefully out to the front of the shop, and Clarke knows to follow.

“First, let me introduce you. That’s Finn over at the register,” Raven says, and Clarke nods at the boy with the floppy hair and the magazine, “but don’t mind him, he’s a flirt. This is Wick,” she says, reaching up to ruffle the hair of the man who had been racing- the boyfriend, Clarke assumes. Wick smiles.

“You were at the race last week, right?” He asks, and Clarke nods. “And Raven pulled you in, I see.”

“Oh, shut up!” Raven smiles, wider than before, and rolls her eyes before turning to Clarke. “He’s an asshole, but he’s my asshole.”

“This is Jasper,” she continues, pointing to the boy in goggles, “and this is Monty. Clarke, did you drive here?”

“I was driven,” Clarke answers, curtly.

“Fantastic. Monty, fill ‘er up, alright?” Raven says to the boy, who grabs a can of gas and smiles at Clarke as he exits the front door, bell jingling. Clarke snorts under her breath at the thought of Miller having a conversation with that ball of sunshine, but it leaves her head as Raven motions for Clarke to follow through a side door.

“Here we are,” Raven says, eyes gleaming as they exit. The door leads to a lot filled with cars and parts, varying in status from almost new to completely unusable and probably hopeless. “See anything you like?”

Clarke brings her hand up to her eyes to shade them as she looks out. The towers of parts overtake any kind of spacing that’s used inside the shop- fenders and bumpers and strewn about in piles, while rows of usable cars stand proudly in the sunlight. There’s an end to the land, but for a moment, dizzy, it doesn’t seem like there is.

Clarke is overwhelmed. There’s too much to take in, and the heavy feeling comes back and suddenly, she isn’t so sure she really wants this anymore. She takes a shaky step back and is about to tell Raven that she has it all wrong when she sees something in the corner of her eye.

It’s a car. But not just any car, no- it’s dusty, for sure, and the headlights are busted out, but Clarke Griffin will always remember the shiny orange 67’ Camaro her dad picked out for her all those years ago.

“I can’t believe it…” she says, under her breath.

“Huh?” Raven turns- she’d been talking about something and Clarke interrupted her rant.

“Is that a Camaro?” Clarke looks over her shoulder at Raven, eyes blown, “from 1967?”

Raven’s knowing smile is as big as the sky.

 

-

 

Five weeks later, Clarke’s flying down a stretch of blown asphalt in the Camaro and it feels like she’s finally home.

There’s a dent in the front bumper, and she knows it’s not the exact same model her dad picked out for her, she does, but it’s hers, and it’s freeing. It wasn’t too hard to get, the paperwork was minimal, and anyways, it’s really the upkeep that’s killer. Having the car involves the use of a warehouse a bit away from her home and lots of late nights, but it’s worth it.

Clarke has her hair in a ponytail and her hands on two and ten. The meter’s at nearly eighty, and she should probably slow down, but nobody comes around here at this time.

And anyways, she’s late.

She gets the calls from Wick now, often, about races she can compete in, some with betting pools, some without. The money’s not really important (mostly because with her family’s money, she could buy the entire highway they raced on) and she donates it all anyway.

Wick’s been helping her, a bit. He raced her for the first time. She lost, horribly, but he taught her the basics, and she’s been growing steadily stronger since.

The tires scratch the road, and the radio is on but not loud enough to hear because the windows are down. She always keeps them down, makes her feel more alive. She’s been driving now for weeks, but the feeling hasn’t changed.

It’s hard for her to describe, but it feels… good. It feels good not having responsibilities out here, not having to say ‘yes’, ever, not having to care. And it feels good because there’s something inside her that feels like it’s always ready to explode and when she’s driving it doesn’t really feel like that, for some reason.

The best part, though, is the way she feels like she can finally breathe. In the real world, she’s underwater, and everything’s blurry, but here it’s crystal clear and she can think and see and _feel_ things she hasn’t felt in a long, long time. It’s a rush of reality.

Clarke slows the car as she nears the street the race is on. She’d searched for it on incognito, and on her phone, because technically, this isn’t any sort of legal. In fact, it’s absolutely one hundred percent not legal, but. Semantics.

Clarke’s only been doing this for a couple of weeks, so her racing name hasn’t been hammered down yet. She goes by “Clarke”- and that’s all. The family name doesn’t need any more scandal attached to it.

The race, she sees as she pulls in, isn’t anything fancy. There’s a couple of cars already going (because she’s late- blame it on the long walk to her car’s hiding spot) and some people milling about, but it’s not one of the larger crowds she’s seen.

Clarke’s up two minutes after she arrives, and she beats the guy she’s pitted against with ease. The engine hums with approval, but the night takes a downward spin from there. She loses race after race, culminating in a final battle with a large man in a large car.

The designated track is a typical dragstrip, about a quarter mile, and Clarke knows it doesn’t take longer than fifteen seconds for the entire race to be completed, but it still feels like years. Time slows down around her, and her ears pound as Clarke and the man get into positions.

There’s an intake of breath and then Clarke’s off. She’s not sure she’s going to win, really, she’s not, but as the seconds pass, she gets more and more sure of herself. The lights are low, the road is loud, and Clarke just inches ahead right at the end- _win._

The night passes quickly and soon enough, it’s way past dark and the crowd is thinning. Clarke shakes the hand of her most recent competitor, because if there’s one thing Wick had taught her about racing, it’s that sportsmanship is everything, and goes over to her car.

Suddenly, before she can open the door, someone’s shouting – _Cops!_ – and everyone is scattering and Clarke feels her blood turn cold. She opens the door, slamming it shut behind her, and tries to jam the keys in the ignition but she misses and it falls; by the time she picks it back up, it’s too late.

A cop car is swerving onto the road and Clarke has the only car left, and she’s in park. She knows it would look suspicious if she left now, so Clarke sits tight and tries to focus on breathing as the cop pauses behind her. Clarke hears the approaching footsteps, and steadies her heart rate.

“Excuse me, miss?” The officer says, flashlight shining into her car. “Could you explain to me what you’re doing here at this time of night?”

The officer’s suit is crisp, and she seems like she means business. Clarke winces at the light but trues to keep a calm demeanor. She knows if she name drops the right people, she should be fine, but suddenly her mouth feels dry.

Clarke takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, officer, I-“

“Clarke! I found it!”

Clarke turns towards the sound and sees a girl with shiny dark hair and bright eyes waving a wallet above her head. She recognizes the girl as a spectator of the race, and Clarke’s surprised she hasn’t left yet. The girl’s using her phone as a flashlight and is walking over to Clarke’s car like she owns the place.

“Who are you?” The officer says, looking the girl over.

“Oh, hi! I’m Octavia, this is my friend Clarke. We were hanging out here earlier with my boyfriend, but then after we dropped him off, I couldn’t find my wallet, and I really need it because tomorrow I have work, so Clarke was just helping me find it,” the words come out in one big breath and even Clarke believes her, “because my parents HATE when I drive this late, you know?”

The cop gives the girl an once-over, but she has a million-watt smile and something about her that seems trustworthy, and nods once.

“You two ought to go home, now. It’s not safe for two young ladies in the middle of nowhere, especially at night.”

“Yes, officer, we’re sorry and we’ll be on our way!” Octavia responds, not missing a beat as she opens the passenger door and slides in. Clarke doesn’t even blink.

The cop shakes her head and turns the flashlight off, walking back to her own car. The second the officer gets in, the girl turns towards Clarke.

“Well, what are we still doing here?” She says, eyes wide. “I didn’t just save your ass for nothing.” Clarke shrugs and obeys, starting the car and putting it into drive.

And that’s how Clarke Griffin meets Octavia Blake.

 

-

 

Octavia ends up being the single best thing that could happen to Clarke. She’s connected. Like, really, _really_ connected, in more ways than one. Her boyfriend Lincoln is the owner of a racing track – a _real_ race track – and Clarke’s been promised a spot on next week’s roster. It’ll be her first time on a racing track that’s not illegal, and she can’t wait.

Besides that, Octavia’s a fast friend, and the first person in a long time Clarke’s ever felt really, truly safe around.

Four days after Clarke meets Octavia, she comes home from a charity benefit in a stiff dress to see a sprawled-out Abby, lying on their couch.

Their home is big, with high ceilings and pillars, because both of her parents came from old money. Though the last seven years have sapped some of the funds, they have enough invested in stocks to stay afloat and keep at least the building that housed their old life. Clarke could move out, and she thinks about it sometimes, but then she comes home to things like this and knows that she never really could.

Clarke’s throat tightens.

“Hey, Abby,” she says, not expecting a response. She doesn’t get one.

Clarke drops her shoulder bag on the floor and pulls her shoes off, setting them in the entryway. She walks over to the couch, still pristine white, always pristine white, no matter how drunk her mother gets.

“Abby,” she says, louder this time. Still, nothing. Clarke lets out an audible sigh and rolls her mother over, and she’s snoring. Figures.

Times have been worse, recently. It’s like all of the years Abby pretended everything was fine had caught up with her, and now she only shows up in public when it’s necessary and only stays sober when there’s no other choice.

Clarke tried asking her about the crash, once.

 

 _“Mom?_

_“Yes, Clarke?” Abby turned, one hand clutching a spatula as she iced a cake for Clarke’s birthday._

_“What was it like?_

_“What was what like?” Abby turned back to the cake and smoothed bright blue frosting._

_“The accident.”_

_And with that, all sounds in the kitchen stopped._

_Abby dropped the spatula onto the marble countertop and closed her eyes._

_“Clarke…”_

_Clarke knew she had overstepped, but the question was out in the open, now, dissipating into thin air._

_“Please. Don’t.”_

Clarke never brought it up again.

She’s reminded of that tonight, with her mother on the satin white couch, eyes shut. Clarke sighs, again, and picks up a blanket from the side basket to cover her mother with.

Once Abby is fully covered, Clarke heads to the kitchen, grabs a water glass and fills it, and takes a Tylenol out of the cupboard. She goes into the living room and places them beside her mother. She’s about to head upstairs when she thinks better of it and pulls a pizza out of the freezer.

The kitchen is shadowy and empty, but Clarke doesn’t really mind. She’s never been one to be afraid of the dark. Clarke sets the oven to preheat, taking the pizza out of its plastic wrapping.

Clarke checks her phone while she waits- the old one, fixed by Raven in about fourteen seconds. She has a text from Octavia- and two missed calls.

It’s strange, because though they met four days ago, they haven’t talked since. Clarke doesn’t know what to think of it, but she should probably call her back, at the very least. Manners. She hits redial just as the oven dings that it’s ready.

Clarke maneuvers the pizza inside the oven as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder. It rings for a moment, and a pit in her stomach forms. This is stupid- why call? They barely know each other, and it’s late, and-

“Clarke!”

The voice on the other end is breathless.

“Octavia- you called?” Clarke responds, setting the timer to ten minutes per the instructions on the box.

“Yeah, I texted you- did you see?” Octavia asks.

“No, I just called back. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over?”

Clarke is stunned, to say the least.

“Really?” She asks, probably not keeping the surprise out of her voice.

“Yeah. You seem cool, I’m bored. It makes sense,” Octavia teases. “What do you say?”

“Sure, yeah,” Clarke says. She would have savored the time home alone after the people-filled charity, but as she looks around the dimly lit room, she realizes that maybe being with someone wouldn’t be so bad.

“Cool! I’ll text you the address,” Octavia says, and sure enough, Clarke’s phone beeps with the message.

“That was fast,” she comments, and Octavia laughs.

“Well, I _may_ have had it already typed in,” Octavia says. Clarke smiles.

“Nice,” Clare quickly enters it into the map on her phone. “You don’t live that far.”

“Fantastic. I’ve got cheap-ass wine, too, so we should be set,” Octavia says.

“Great. See you in twenty?” Clarke says, checking her watch.

“Sounds great!” Octavia says. “See you then.”

Clarke ends the call, and the shadowy room isn’t so lonely anymore.

 

-

 

Clarke arrives at Octavia’s address twenty-three minutes later. She walked, but forgot to factor in changing time- now she’s sporting an old shirt she didn’t look at before throwing on with a jacket and is clutching a Tupperware full of lukewarm pizza. She knocks on the door, but Octavia just yells from deep inside to come in, so she pushes past the screen.

“I brought pizza,” Clarke yells in Octavia’s general direction. She hears something from the back of the house, a human noise that sounds positive, and smiles, walking through the entryway.

Inside is a modestly furnished home, but it’s clean, and warm. The colors are gorgeous, too- butterfly blues, forest greens. Octavia must have an eye for these things. There’s a hallway to Clarke’s right and a kitchen ahead of her- the house doesn’t seem too big. The living room has a soft checkered couch and a TV in the corner with a massive DVD collection, tucked into soft blue wall-shelves.

Clarke makes a move to sit on the couch, walking past the black hallway. She shifts slightly to glance inside when suddenly, she’s hit by a wall of dark matter. It’s vaguely human-shaped, but definitely NOT Octavia, and Clarke’s blood turns to ice. She acts quickly, because she’s had years of martial arts training (her father always liked to air on the cautious side when it came to Clarke’s safety) and brings her knee up, assuming from the size that the shape is a man.

She’s right and her knee connects with a groin, and then everything happens at once. The pizza container falls, the man yells “Who the fuck-“ and Octavia walks in holding two beers, and Clarke suddenly realizes she’s drastically misunderstood the situation.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” Octavia asks, and Clarke’s eyes widen.

“I’m sorry, I thought he was an intruder, or something, and I just-“

“Knee’d my brother in the balls?” And then Octavia is laughing so hard she doubles over. Her brother is wincing, stepping back from Clarke as Octavia wipes a tear from her eye.

“You’re going to fit right in here,” she says, setting the beers down on the coffee table. “Clarke, this is my brother, Bellamy. Bellamy, this is Clarke. And yes, Bellamy, I’m going to get coasters, calm down.”

Octavia walks back into the kitchen and Clarke looks up at Bellamy. He’s tall, wearing sweatpants that hug his hips in just the right way. His broad shoulders are well defined, his hair is ruffled, and most importantly, he is definitely related to Octavia. They have the same olive skin and dark hair, a lethal combination- and if she’d looked for half a second she probably would have realized that. Oh, god, she makes a new friend and the first thing she does is severely hinder her new friend’s brother’s ability to have children. This is off to a great start.

“Nice to meet you,” Clarke says, meekly. “I brought pizza?”

Bellamy snorts and turns around, going into the first room and slamming the door behind him.

“I’m sorry!” Clarke yells, hoping it’ll get to him, while Octavia walks back in holding two coasters.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s always like that,” she says. “Well, not always- he doesn’t usually get hit by my friends- hit on, yes, but what are you gonna do?”

“I’ve always been good at introductions,” Clarke says, picking her Tupperware up and setting it on the table.

“I can tell,” Octavia says, laughing again. “That was golden, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says, smiling, and any awkwardness she was worried about is no longer an issue, because Octavia is the kind of person who puts everyone at ease. She’s completely nonthreatening in her messy bun and loose t-shirt, but still has an energy about her that makes Clarke completely comfortable.

They both settle into the couch and grab a pizza slice and a beer. Octavia starts the conversation with questions about Clarke’s past, but also knows when to stop pushing. It’s a nice change – someone who’s both brash and comforting – and Clarke’s enjoying it.

Somehow, they end up talking for hours, and it’s… fun. It’s honestly fun. Clarke hasn’t had no-strings-attached-fun for a long time, and it’s nice. Bellamy even comes out for a beer eventually, and they have a conversation that doesn’t involve her castrating him, which is a good start.

Turns out Octavia knows Raven, and Wick- and basically everyone else ever involved in drag racing, ever.

“We used to be really involved in racing,” Octavia says, finger circling the beer top, lazy. “Used to. Not so much anymore.”

“Do you miss it?” Clarke asks, not wanting to delve too deep in Octavia’s family history if she doesn’t want to share it.

“All of the time,” Octavia’s grin is rueful. “Now I just go to races sometimes.”

“Like when you saved me,” Clarke says, laughing.

“Yeah,” Octavia smiles. Clarke takes a breath-

“Have you thought about getting involved again?”

“What do you mean?” Octavia asks.

“I want to be a racer,” Clarke says, eyes wide. She feels like she's admitting her hidden desires- the idea of racing being appealing was one of her best-kept secrets, “But I’m new. I don’t know anything about racing. You do. You know everything about it and everyone in it. You could help me.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Octavia says, sitting up on the couch. “Like your manager?”

“Exactly!” Clarke says, eyes wide. “You could help me get races, and if I win, you could get fifty percent of the winnings!”

“Okay, wow, that’s a lot. Maybe, like, twenty percent?” Octavia says, but Clarke shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t do it for anything less than fifty.”

“If you’re sure… you’re the best!” Octavia leans over the couch and gives Clarke a giant hug. “And this is an awesome idea, you know.”

“I know,” Clarke says, and she means it.

The conversation moves on from there, but suddenly it’s three AM and both girls are fighting to keep their eyes open.

“Oh my god, it’s so late,” Octavia says, stifling a yawn. They’d put on a movie two hours ago for background noise, and the credits had just finished rolling.

“I should probably head out,” Clarke says, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

“Are you joking? It’s way too late, stay here,” Octavia states aloud, as if it’s already resolved.

“I didn’t bring clothes,” Clarke starts, but Octavia stops her.

“Then wear mine,” she shrugs. “Come on, my room is this way.”

Octavia stands up and Clarke follows her down the hall. Octavia’s room is next to Bellamy’s, and is chock-full of drawings and paintings.

“Boyfriend’s an artist,” she says, grinning as she sees Clarke looking at the art on the walls.

“I used to paint,” Clarke says, “A long time ago.”

“You should paint. Lincoln loves it, says it calms him down,” Octavia says, picking up a blanket from the floor and holding it out. When Clarke takes it, she shuffles through drawers and finds an oversized shirt and boy shorts, and hands them to Clarke.

“Here,” she says, handing her the items. “The bed’s a queen so we’ll fit.”

Clarke’s never been like this, making friends this quickly. She was always a little adult, even after losing her father, and that never left much time for friends like this.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, and she means it. There’s a first time for everything, and it feels really, really good.

 

-

 

Clarke wakes up the next afternoon at two. She sends a quick prayer to whoever’s up there that she doesn’t have anything to do today and changes into her clothes, slipping her shoes on as she yawns. Clarke heads out of Octavia’s bedroom and sees a note on the coffee table.

_Clarke! It’s one now, I’m going to meet Lincoln for lunch. Text me!_

Clarke grins and shakes her head, slipping her keys into her hand as she heads for the front door.

“Sleep well?” a voice asks from behind her. She turns- it’s Bellamy.

“I did, thanks,” she says, definitely not noticing the way his t-shirt frames his arms, or his bed head. Bellamy snorts.

“You snore,” he says, but it’s not malicious, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“It’s allergy season.”

“What’s with the shirt?” Bellamy asks, pointing to Clarke’s old tee. She looks down at it, an old shirt from a Princess and a Pea play she helped host a couple years back, and looks back up.

“I was wearing it last night,” she says. Bellamy shrugs.

“I didn’t see it last night.”

And with that, Bellamy shakes his head and goes back into his room, but before he shuts the door, calls out –

“Bye, Princess!”

Clarke smiles on her way out.

The good mood lasts until she reaches the front door of her home. Her mom is almost certainly awake, and hungover Abby is infinitely worse than passed-out Abby ever will be.

Clarke enters the home without trepidation- sure enough, Abby is awake, and dressed. Her hair is in a tight bun and her face looks washed, but she has a mug beside her and Clarke knows what’s inside.

“Where were you?”

The voice is cold, and it’s already giving Clarke a headache.

“At a friend’s house.”

“You never stay at your friend’s houses,” Abby says, eyes narrowed.

“Well, I did.” Clarke drops her keys into a bowl by the door and shrugs her jacket off. “Since when did you start caring when I was gone?”

“Since you started leaving,” Abby says, and Clarke can’t handle this, not right now.

“At least I am leaving,” she says, staring pointedly at her mother. “While you’re just rotting away in this tomb."

“You can’t talk to me like that, Clarke,” Abby warns, but Clarke steamrolls over her.

“And why is that?”

“I’m your mother,” Abby starts, but Clarke stops her.

“You stopped being my mother the day he died and you know it.”

Too far.

Clarke regrets the words the second she says them, but they’re out there and not coming back so there’s nothing to do but watch the fallout. Abby’s eyes get wide, and she walks over to Clarke, closer.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Abby says.

“Bullshit! I lived it.”

“Not like I have,” Abby says, and Clarke’s just about had it with this self-righteousness.

“Sure, _mom,_ ” and then she’s walking through the front door, again. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she needs to go.

When Clarke returns hours later, Abby’s back on the couch. But it doesn’t surprise her.

Not anymore.

 

-

 

The first time Clarke sees the track, she’s amazed.

It’s like the tracks she’s seen on TV, with stands and lights everywhere. There’s two sections, the drag strip (where she spends most of her time), a quarter-mile long patch of grey asphalt, and the circuit, where cars race in groups. There’s boxes for managers and cheering fans every weekend. It’s something she’d only ever dreamed of before, but now that she’s here, it’s in technicolor.

Clarke visits with Octavia or alone, and that’s it. She does laps on the track, for fun, or races, heavy on the strip. After all, practice makes perfect.

At first, it’s just Octavia and Clarke, but then, out of nowhere, it becomes Octavia and Clarke and Bellamy because one day, Bellamy decides to tag along with Octavia.

Sometime Octavia watches and sometimes she disappears with Lincoln. Today’s one of the disappearing days, but Bellamy stays on the stands and watches Clarke drive. He doesn’t say anything until she’s already gone around the track a few times.

“That’s your strategy?” He says when Clarke steps out of her car after a practice lap.

“It works,” Clarke defends herself, pulling her helmet off.

“How often?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke winces.

“Half of the time?”

“Not good enough,” he says, and then steps into the track- somewhere Clarke has never seen him.

“You have to hit the sweet spot- hands not so tight, hit the gas at the right moment,” he says, pointing at her car. “That’s how you win a race.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know, Princess, just accept the advice."

“Is that nickname sticking?” Clarke asks him. “It was just a shirt.”

“It’s a good one,” Bellamy says, looking into her car. He waits a few moments before saying, with trademarked Blake bluntness, “You know, I could help you.”

Clarke looks up. “What?”

“You need advice. I can help,” he says, turning back to look at her. Clarke contemplates it for a few seconds.

“Okay,” she says, and Bellamy looks surprised.

“Thought you’d put up more of a fight,” he said.

“I’m not an idiot,” Clarke shoots back. “And I’m not too prideful to ask for help.”

“Fair enough,” he says, standing back up.

“And what do you want?” Clarke asks.

“What?”

“What do you want? In return?” She says it impatiently.

“O’s your new manager, right?” He asks, and Clarke nods. “And you’re giving her fifty percent of your earnings?” Clarke nods again. “Then we’re even.”

“So it’s a deal?” Clarke asks, sticking her hand out. Bellamy takes one look and shakes it.

“It’s a deal.”

 

-

 

It takes a while, and Bellamy’s not the easiest person to work with, but something about the lessons help. After Bellamy starts teaching her, Clarke can’t lose. It’s like something snaps inside of her, something turns on that wasn’t there before. No, not wasn’t there- was just lying dormant 

Clarke starts spending a lot of time with Bellamy, more time than Octavia or Raven, even. At first, half of their lessons end with one of them storming off or yelling at each other, but as time passes, they become a team. They start being able to communicate with looks, and it freaks Octavia out (“Come on, Bellamy, she’s MY friend”) but Clarke knows she really finds it endearing.

The races Lincoln sets up are huge successes, and she can’t lose. Clarke gains the nickname “Speed Queen”, which reminds her of her father. Octavia thinks it’s hilarious, but Clarke likes it.

Suddenly, she’s not just a street racer, she’s a drag racer, and a damn good one at that. Her speeds are unparalleled- and the rush she gets from each race is, too.

The first car Clarke beat was a tight one, a Firebird driven by a sleazy looking guy. Racing feels good, but winning feels _great_. And Clarke intends on doing so more often.

Without her realizing it, Clarke has started leading a double life. By day, she’s the same as she always was- someone with a high-society upbringing, socialite-level schmoozing needed, long dresses and tight chignons. After all, her father was a diplomat, and that status doesn’t go away overnight.

She keeps going to events because she feels like she owes that to her dad. He always wanted her to be involved in his work, and this is the only way she knows how, because if there’s one think that Clarke Griffin doesn’t want to be involved in, it’s the government.

Clarke also goes for her mother. No matter how much they fight and argue, she’s family, and if all of the Griffins disappear from the social scene, it would be an uproar.

But by night?  
  
Clarke is free.

And now, she’s not alone, either. She still tells Abby that she’s jogging, but the only jogging she’s doing is to her Camaro-

Then she’s flying.

That’s what she’s thinking about when she’s at benefits, now, and fundraisers. She didn’t used to resent them, but now that she’s had a taste of the outside world, it’s like she’s never hated anything more.

It’s been three months since her first race – drag race, that is – and she’s happier than she’s been in years. Tensions are higher than ever with Abby, but Clarke’s relationships with the Blake’s and Raven saved her. The benefits, though, those only get worse.

She’s at one of these benefits when she gets a call from Bellamy in the middle of talking to a Senator.

“Pardon me, Sir, I have to take this,” Clarke is all smiles and all business.

“Of course, Miss Griffin,” the man responds, stepping aside politely so she can go to the terrace. Clarke walks out of the stuffy hall and into fresh air, taking Bellamy’s call.

“What’s up?”

“Clarke, you have to come down here,” Bellamy says, and she can almost hear the smile on his face. “I know it’s last minute, but the showing is amazing.”

“CLARKE,” Octavia hijacks the phone, “As your manager, I’m decreeing that you come down here right now!”

Bellamy takes the phone back.

“There’s a bunch of new racers, and one of them- fuck, Princess, you have to come see this.”

“Damn it, Blake, how many times have I told you? I’m a Queen.”

Clarke ends the call without waiting for a response, and dials Miller.

“Miller?” She says, probably bothering him in some way. “I need you to come save me.”

“What’s the address?” Miller asks, already all business, and Clarke tells him.

Five minutes later, Miller’s out front and Clarke’s offering apologies.

“Sorry, you were probably busy, but I don’t have any other way to get home.”

Miller just shrugs. “Part of the job description.”

“How’d you get here so fast?” Clarke asks.

“I was down town,” he says, checking the rear view mirror.

“Visiting anyone?” Clarke asks, completely innocently, but Miller sees right through it. He looks over at Clarke, reprimanding.

“Work life. Personal life. Separate.”

“A girl can try,” Clarke says, shrugging and settling in the back seat. Her home’s not too far away, but she’s surprised when Miller drives straight past it.

“Uhm, Miller?”

“Just trust me.”

“Okay.”

They’re only driving for about ten more seconds until Miller pulls up to the warehouse- and Clarke’s surprised.

“You know?” She asks, and Miller snorts.

“How could I not?”

Clarke smiles and climbs out of the car. She’s never been happier that she keeps a change of clothes in the Camaro.

 

-

 

Clarke arrives at the race with gloves on and helmet forward. Bellamy and Octavia are waiting for her at the entrance.

“Took you long enough,” Bellamy says when she rolls up.

“I had to take the cab,” she explains. Octavia rolls her eyes.

“Not important! I’ve already handled your sign-in, just get in there. You’ve got two other races before,” Octavia says, in a rush.

“Before what?” Clarke asks, but the Octavia’s already gone, running off to take care of something, somewhere. Bellamy just shakes his head.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, princess,” he says as Clarke gets the motion to go on through and drives by him, but she sees the look in his eye- this is going to be fun.

The first car she’s pitted against is a piece of cake. Literally- it’s hosted by Dewey’s Bakery. The second car is green, and that doesn’t stand for “go” in this scenario- Clarke is surprised they even got let in.

The Blake’s words of an important third race are ringing in her head when a purple Monte Carlo pulls up beside her. Clarke looks over and nods at the driver, who gives no response. Asshole.

_Three… two… one… **go**._

Clarke takes off, using her signature move- the takeoff. Usually it sets her ahead of the pack, at least by a little bit, but the Monte Carlo hasn’t been deterred at all. In fact… it’s beating Clarke.

Clarke steps on the gas, trying desperately to pull ahead before they reach the finish line, but it does nothing. The car moves fast, like she’s never seen, and, for the first time in three months, Clarke Griffin… loses.

Clarke’s stunned. She doesn’t mean to be, but she is. The Monte Carlo doesn’t even stop at the end of the race, they pull around- probably just to prove how much better they are than Clarke. The car drives up next to hers and stops. The driver rolls the window down, looking directly at Clarke.

“You are?” Clarke says, voice disbelieving and a little pissed off, to be honest. It’s not like she’s a sore loser, but this car came out of nowhere and took over the entire race- she deserves to know who it is, at the very least.

“That’s none of your concern,” says the voice from the car. Someone opens the door and steps out, pulling off her purple helmet to match the purple of the car, revealing long, braided hair, heavy eyeliner and an even gaze

“I like to know my competition,” Clarke calls. Uh-oh. This girl is hot. Worryingly hot.

“Call me the Commander,” she says with hooded eyes. “And what should I call you?”

“They call me Speed Queen, but you can call me Clarke.”

“Clarke,” the girl says the name like she’s trying it on for size. “It was a pleasure beating you.”

“You won’t always,” Clarke says, cocking her head. “We’re going to rematch”

“Won’t I?”

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks. The girls have gotten closer throughout their talk, and now they’re almost touching.

“I prefer to keep myself private,” she says, and Clarke notices a tattoo on her neck- a gear.

“So I’m the only one exposed?” Clarke asks.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” The girl responds, and Clarke can’t decide if she wants to hit or kiss that smug look off of her face.

The Commander looks back at the other racers. “I’m done here,” she says, looking back to Clarke.

“I’ll see you around?” Clarke says, determination setting in. “We have a date, you know.”

“Perhaps.”

And with that, the girl steps into her car, starts it and drives away.

Holy fucking shit.

 

-

 

Clarke does a couple of races over the next week, but her heart isn’t really in it. The competition’s been sucked out of the local racetrack because the Commander beats everyone- and that’s everyone. Clarke keeps losing to her, too, and she’s not happy. So, she does what any sane person would do- go to Raven for some upgrades.

She shows up unannounced at the shop, and sees Miller’s car. Weird.

The inside is delightfully cool, but Raven is nowhere to be found. Wick is working the front desk and Clarke says hello.

“Hey, Clarke, haven’t seen you around lately,” Wick says, and Clarke smiles.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy- drag racing, and all.”

“Moving up in the world? Nice. What’re you here for?” He asks, and Clarke looks around.

“I’m looking for Raven, but I’m not sure where she is?”

“Oh, she’s outside with the lovebirds,” Wick says, grinning like a mad hatter.

“Thanks!” Clarke says, heading out back. Raven’s there, and so is one of the boys she met last time- what was it? Monty- Monty, yes.

“Hey, Clarke! What’s up?” Raven asks, putting down a socket wrench.

“Hey, Raven, I’m looking for some improvements for my car- it’s not _fast_ enough.”

“Your car is insane! How can it not be fast enough?” She asks, and Clarke shrugs.

“Times change. Faster cars are built, faster cars are bought.”

“Amen to that. I’ll see what I can do, is your car out front?”

“Yeah, follow me,” and Clarke leads Raven through the shop and to the front. While out, she notices that Miller’s car is missing.

“Hey, was Miller here?” She asks Raven, Raven looks up and nods.

“Yeah, he was. It’s always the cutest thing.”

“Who, Miller?” Clarke says, surprised.

“He shows up all the time,” Raven says, a sly smile on her face.

Clarke shrugs that off, but makes a mental note to ask him later- as if he’d actually tell her anything.

“So, what do you want done?” asks Raven, looking at the car.

Clarke smiles. “Just a couple of upgrades.”

 

-

 

Clarke tests the engine out on Wick 

They meet on the strip of road she found the first time she went out to race, but the road is empty and the sky is clear. It’s just her, Wick, and Raven, and she’s more nervous than she should be.

Clarke’s good, but she’s still never really gone up against anyone who knew her before- before she had any bit of training, that is, and it’s bringing her anxiety levels up. Besides that, she hasn’t raced Wick since her first race, which she lost horribly.

“You ready?” Wick says, sending her that carefree smile that she’s used to seeing in an entirely different context.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says, and means it. Wick just laughs and Raven smiles from her perch on the grass.

“You both good?” Raven calls, and Clarke puts the car into drive as reassurance. Raven knows what it means. She gets up and walks over to the two cars, slapping Wick’s on the way but giving Clarke a wink that makes Clarke sure that Raven’s on her side.

“Mark, get set… go!” Raven shouts, in between the two cars, and they’re off.

Clarke’s not sure what the new engine is going to do, because it’s new and though Raven tried explaining it to her, it was from under the hood of a car and Raven’s never been all that good at explaining, anyways. She finds out what it does, though- goes _fast._

And it’s proven on the track.

Wick doesn’t have a chance, and they both know it within the first few seconds. Then, in a burst, it’s over, and Clarke’s shell-shocked and still holding on to the wheel.

“ _What_ was _that?”_ Wick yells, delighted voice ringing as he exits his car, hurrying over to Clarke’s. “Has the student become the teacher or _what_!”

Clarke smiles, wide, and lets go of the wheel.

“Whoa, Raven, is that engine even street legal?” Clarke asks, seeing Raven walk over with a grin.

“Barely,” Raven says, and laughs at Wick’s face. “You lost hard.”

“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not even mad, that was amazing.”

“Thanks, guys,” Clarke says, unbuckling and stepping out of the car. “Do you think the Commander still has a chance?”

“Awh, look at our baby, all grown up and worried about winning,” Wick says, pulling Raven in with one arm and planting a kiss on her forehead.

“Definitely,” Raven says, looking at Clarke with pride in her eyes. “This engine is one hundred percent fast enough to beat the Commander.”

 

-

 

The engine isn't fast enough to beat the Commander.

It’s like she got an upgrade, too, because Clarke’s still matched at best, and losing horribly at worst. The girl is insane- and she still won’t tell Clarke her name.

It’s not like the fun has been pulled out of racing, but something has changed, and it’s the discord that comes from a problem that Clarke can’t solve 

So when Abby tells Clarke about a charity dinner she has to attend, it’s actually a welcome change. Until she can figure out how to beat this girl, racing’s going to be more problem-solving than freedom, and everyone’s mind could use a rest.

The charity is run by a big business, but it isn’t a bad one- Trikru is all for helping the environment, not hurt it, even if their tactics are a bit aggressive for Clarke’s liking.

The banquet hall is filled, and Clarke is wearing a long silver dress, but no one she really, truly likes is here. There’s a couple of members of society she doesn’t mind, like Wells, her friend from before her father’s passing, but he’s not here and neither is anyone else she prefers speaking to.

Clarke grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and looks around for her table. She finds it on the other side of the dance hall, but when she sees who’s already seated there, she takes a step back.

It’s her- the girl from the race. The Commander. Clarke can’t believe it- how is she here? Of all places?

The girl is wearing a dark dress and sitting next to Anya Trikru- an entrepreneur who clawed her way to the top. Clarke has a begrudging respect for her, but at the moment, Anya is not the one Clarke’s focus is on.

The girl looks beautiful, Clarke hates to admit. And that makes this so much worse. If she was completely unattractive, Clarke wouldn’t be having such a hard time keeping her emotions in check. Clarke walks purposefully around the dance floor to her table, head held high.

“Hello, Ms. Trikru,” Clarke says as she’s taking her seat. “It’s wonderful that your company is hosting.”

Anya smiles as she sits- though Trikru and the government have has issues in the past, it’s nothing that a tense social situation can’t smooth over

“Good to have you, Clarke. Always good to have a Griffin present. Where’s your mother?”

“She’s taken ill, I come with her condolences. And who is this?” Clarke lies smoothly, diverting her attention to the Commander, who is smoldering.

“This is my assistant, Lexa Heda.”

“Hello, Lexa,” Clarke says, turning towards the Commander, the glint of victory in her eye. She turns back to Anya.

“Ms. Trikru, would you mind if I stole Ms. Heda away for a dance? She looks ravishing,” Clarke says, and Anya nods.

“Of course,” she says, looking at Lexa, who stands up, but doesn’t look happy doing it. Clarke leads her to the dance floor, and they stand close, swaying slightly to the music.

It’s silent for a moment, but Clarke can’t help teasing.

“I know all of your secrets,” she whispers into Lexa’s ear. Lexa chuckles, but there’s no humor in the dry noise, and raises her eyebrows at Clarke.

“Clarke Griffin- you’re the dead diplomat’s daughter?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” she says, spinning Lexa out. They don’t say anything at all, and Clarke’s about to break the silence when the music stops. All of the partners step away from each other, including Lexa and Clarke.

“I’m going to step outside for some air,” Clarke says, meaningfully, and Lexa catches the look in her eye.

Clarke walks, aimed straight towards the back doors, and steps out. The night is surprisingly warm, and she’s grateful. There’s a terrace behind the doors, blocked from indoor view. Clarke walks over just as Lexa steps outside and closes the door behind her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Clarke comments as she sits on a stone ledge. Lexa follows suit, and shakes her head.

“”I didn’t expect you to be here, Clarke Griffin.”

“Just Clarke, thanks,” Clarke looks up at the sky. “Why are you here?”

“I was just transferred from Virginia to be Anya’s second,” Lexa says, looking up herself.

“How did you get into racing?” Clarke asks, as if that’s not what was on her mind the second she saw Lexa here.

“I raced often back home,” she says. “I grew up doing it. You?”

“This is my third month.”

Lexa has the decency to look impressed.

“You show great skill for someone who began three months ago,” she said, looking down to Clarke. “I admire that.”

“Yeah, well.”

It’s silent for a moment, and without the spark of warring that comes from competition, Clarke doesn’t know what to say to Lexa. Luckily, Lexa fills the silence.

“The stars are beautiful tonight.”

“They are,” Clarke says, still staring up.

“They remind us of those we have lost,” Lexa says, eyes glued to the sky. Clarke looks over at her.

“Who have you lost?"

“We’re not there yet, Clarke.”

“I understand,” Clarke says, and then she doesn’t need to fill in the silence. It’s almost companionable.

“Lexa, I want to beat you,” Clarke says, taking a page from Bellamy’s book and deciding blunt is her best move here. “How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, Clarke. No one ever has.” She says, and Clarke looks over. Lexa is staring directly at her with no apology.

And then Lexa moves in, just a bit, and Clarke doesn’t stop her. She knows what’s coming, and she wants it, too- Lexa is close to her mouth, now, close enough that Clarke can feel her breath on her face. She pauses, almost asking permission, and Clarke answers but bridging the gap between them, and then they’re kissing on the terrace.

Lexa’s mouth is soft and wet, and her hands come down to glide down Clarke’s sides. Clarke doesn’t stop her, and the kissing gets more frantic.

The dress is tight, so she doesn’t plan on going any further, but when Lexa slips her hand up, Clarke doesn’t stop her. After all, Clarke's got nothing to lose, and it seems Lexa is skilled in more ways than one.

Fifteen minutes later, they finally separate. Clarke is surprised no one came outside, because it wasn’t as if they were being quiet, but she’s not one to question a good thing.

Lexa doesn’t say anything, just straightens her clothes and steps back inside. Clarke breathes deep into the night air, and almost feels guilty for a moment, but she doesn’t know why. She brushes that off and pulls out her phone to call Miller.

That’s enough benefits for one night.

 

-

 

Clarke is dropped off at her home forty minutes later, and she walks inside with aching feet- heels were a bad choice. Abby’s probably passed out somewhere, and as she takes her shoes off, she checks the living room- nothing. Weird 

She starts to go up the stairs when she hears a crash. She turns around, not seeing anything until a sharp noise follows.

Clare heads up the stairs and goes into Abby’s room. She’s on the floor, next to a framed photo of Jake that’s fallen onto hardwood floors and shattered, and Abby is crying.

“What happened?” Clarke asks, dropping to her knees and picking up a sharp piece of glass. Abby doesn’t respond, just keeps crying.

“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault,” she says, looking at the photo in her hand.

“It was an accident,” Clarke says, bringing a trashcan over and starting to clean up the glass.

Abby is of no help. She just lies on the floor, immobile.

Clarke goes downstairs to get the broom and sweeps the rest of the glass up, throwing it into the trash can.

After that, Clarke helps pick Abby up and brings her over to the bed. She doesn’t seem drunk, not on alcohol, but she’s hurting, anyways, and Clarke’s been cleaning up Abby’s messes for years.

“I’m sorry,” Abby whispers.

But Clarke is bitter, now, bitter after years of cleaning up and having to be the mother far too early.

“You could have been there for me.”

Clarke knows Abby isn’t asleep, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

-

 

Clarke pours more time into racing Lexa, because she’s a challenge, and if they get to fuck in Lexa’s car, well, that’s just a bonus. The tension from the racetrack translates well to bed, and it’s always exciting 

Every race with Lexa is like a brush with death.

The girl is fast, yes, but she’s also dangerous. Her tactics are practically illegal, but they hug the line between good and bad so tightly that no one knows whether to call it or not. And no one does, because her tactics are fatal, but beautiful.

She takes corners tight, always tight, and never does a fake-out, because she doesn’t need to. Clarke feels the tension every time she races her, running down her spine and pooling in her stomach.

The lights seem to be brighter with the Commander, too- the countdown, faster. She makes everything that happens so much more, because she’s something that Clarke can’t solve, and Clarke hates the unsolvable.

Racing Lexa is wonderful, but fucking her is a bit more complicated.

It’s not perfect, because sometimes Clarke wants to call her significant other at night and she realizes that she doesn’t have one, not really. But she’s okay with it because it’s something, and Clarke doesn’t worry about it too often.

It’s only a month before they hit a snag.

Clarke’s been practicing, getting upgrades from Raven- she’s this close to beating Lexa, but it’s not working.

Clarke brings it up to Bellamy later while they’re lying on the grass outside the arena, and he just smiles.

“Is she a good lay?” He says, rolling his shoulders as he yawns. It’s midnight, but they just finished a practice session, and neither wants to go home yet.

Clarke winces, because for some reason, she hates the idea of Bellamy talking about it- always has. She ignores it.

“She’s great,” Clarke says, rolling over onto her back. “It’s strictly casual, though.”

“Really?” Bellamy says, looking over at her. “I didn’t peg you as the friends with benefits type.”

“I’m not,” Clarke says, picking pieces of grass off of the lawn. “But this is what she wants.”

“Is it what you want?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke sighs.

“I don’t know,” she says, scattering pulled grass into the wind. “I like things to be clear, but this isn’t.”

“You want it to be more?” He says, abut Clarke shakes her head.

“I just don’t want it to stay here,” she says, more honest than she’s been even with herself. Bellamy seems to swallow the words.

“Sure is fun, though,” Clarke comments, and Bellamy laughs, but then he doesn’t say anything.

He’s been doing that more, staying silent when he could speak, and Clarke doesn’t know what to think of it. She turns and looks at him, and he’s looking at her, and it makes her stomach churn in a way she doesn’t want to acknowledge, so she turns back towards the stars and swallows.

“Can’t say I’m not jealous,” Bellamy says, voice slightly forced and closer to her ear- he must still be facing her.

“Lexa is pretty hot,” Clarke responds, refusing to turn.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, and Clarke can feel her heart in her throat. But it’s late, and she’s feeling gutsy, and the stars are above her.

“Then what did you mean?” she says, and the air is filled with thick what-ifs. Clarke doesn’t know if she’s made a mistake, maybe she doesn’t want to know what he means, maybe that tug in her gut is totally wrong. She still refuses to turn towards him.

“I can’t answer that, Princess,” Bellamy says, but then his voice isn’t coming from near her ear, and the moment is gone. The air clears between them, and Clarke can’t tell if she’s relieved or disappointed. _Relieved,_ she thinks to herself. _Definitely relieved._

And like that, they’re back to normal.

It’s easier that way.

 

-

 

Clarke and Bellamy have a lot of moments like that, where he’s teaching her some deep philosophical shit he tries to pass off as racing.

“What do you mean, drifting?”

It’s the next day, and they’re both leaning on the railing overlooking the track. The practice sessions are daily now, and they’ve become Clarke’s favorite part of the day. They’ve just finished one, though, which means Bellamy is happier than usual and Clarke’s more tired than usual, which is why Bellamy ruefully grins at that and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“No, I know what _drifting_ is, you idiot, I mean how would you use it here?”

“It’s simple,” Bellamy says, pointing to the track. “It’s not about the drift, it’s about the mindset.”

“Alright, Aristotle,” Clarke says, holding her hands up.

“I always thought of myself of more of a Socrates,” Bellamy teases, and Clarke groans. Audibly.

“Get back to it. I need to beat this girl, remember? Drifting. Go.”

“It’s about what the drift means,” Bellamy says, almost searching for words, which he never does.

“Explain,” Clarke tilts her head.

“When you drift, it’s about control. You have to hit the brakes fast enough and turn the wheel hard enough, but that’s just the tactical part. Drifting is giving up. It’s when you’re at your lowest, the car’s stopped, but you’ve already built up enough momentum that you just keep going.”

Bellamy pauses, then continues.

“That’s why it’s so important. It’s not that you’re giving up, it’s that you’re in the drift."

Clarke takes that in for a moment. She nods, once, before looking at Bellamy.

“I swear, if this is a metaphor for life, I’m going to kill you,” she says, and Bellamy laughs. “I’m serious!”

“Go ahead, princess,” he says, arms wide. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Oh, you did _not_ just reference Pat Benatar,” she says, and rolls her eyes, hard.

Bellamy smiles and they both look onto the track. The day is fading into night and it’s gorgeous outside, the weather cool, not cold, and the sky purple.

“I’m telling you, Clarke, it’s all about the drift.”

“I think I’m in the drift,” she says, holding onto the bar and leaning back.

“And I’m Aristotle,” he responds, letting out a snort.

The moon is bright, and Clarke looks over at Bellamy. There’s another reason these practice sessions are becoming her favorite, and she doesn’t want to think about it. Why ruin a good thing? But her stomach still turns and so she looks away, always.

“Shut up, asshole, we were having a moment,” Clarke says, looking up at the stars that are just beginning to glow.

She can feel Bellamy’s gaze on her face. It’s something that’s been happening more, but it’s comforting. That’s what she calls it, because otherwise, it would be dangerous.

He doesn’t say anything. It’s nice.

 

-

 

The next day, Clarke brings it up to Lexa.

“What are we?” She asks, before they start making out in Lexa’s car. Lexa looks up at Clarke, surprised.

"What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe I want something real.”

Lexa is silent for a moment, and she moves over to sit next to Clarke instead of lying on top of her.

“You know I can’t do that,” Lexa says, looking at Clarke sternly.

“Why?” Clarke says, looking at Lexa earnestly.

“Love is weakness, Clarke- I’ve told you this before,” Lexa said, and she had. Clarke vividly remembers Lexa telling her the same thing right when they began this whole mess- that she couldn’t be in a relationship, because that’s not how she worked, because love made her weaker. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Clarke says, hopeful.

“Why are you putting this on me?” Lexa asks, looking more distressed than Clarke has ever seen her.

“I’m not, I just realized what I wanted.”

“It’s not what I want,” Lexa says, softly, and Clarke nods.

“Is there no way you could ever…?” Clarke says, quiet, and Lexa shakes her head.

“I loved once,” Lexa said, turning her head to look out the window. “It didn’t end well.”

“It doesn’t have to end badly,” Clare starts, but Lexa interrupts her.

“Doesn’t it?”

Clarke is quiet for a moment, and so is Lexa. Lexa closes her eyes and breaths out, heavy.

“Do you need this?”

Clarke thinks for a moment, quiet. She weighs her options in her head- it’s been so long since she’s allowed herself to feel that way about someone, any deep way, about anyone. But it feels like it’s time, and so she responds. 

“Yes.”

And it’s true.

“If that’s how it must be,” Lexa says, reverting into her persona.

“I think it has to be,” Clarke says, and Lexa smiles, sadly.

“Then I will see you around, Clarke Griffin.”

“You too, Lexa,” Clarke says, looking back at her. “Take care.”

“I will.”

And then, Clarke is stepping out of the car into the sunlight. There’s something like relief in the back of her throat, and she doesn’t know why, but she’s let go of this battle.

She feels light, and free- there’s nothing holding her down, now, and it’s a beautiful feeling.

 

-

 

Lexa stops racing at Clarke’s track.

It doesn’t taste like betrayal, but Clarke does miss the competition. Octavia doesn’t, though, because without the Commander, Clarke is the reigning champion once again.

When Bellamy asks why Lexa doesn’t come anymore, Clarke tells him that she asked for something real, and it didn’t work out.

His face lights up when she tells him, but only for a second. Then he doesn’t ask questions.

They don’t talk about the moment after practice, or about the drift, and the carefully decided upon relief that Clarke felt then turns into something that’s a lot closer to disappointment than she’d like to admit.

Clarke starts hanging around more than usual. Octavia’s always open to anything if she’s not busy with Lincoln, and Bellamy spends the majority of his time at Raven’s shop, where Clarke often finds herself sitting in. After Raven found out that Clarke was friends with the Blake’s, she reconnected with them, and when she found out Bellamy knew so much about cars and was in-between jobs, she hired him on the spot.

Clarke likes to tell herself that her coming in so often has more to do with companionship than seeing Bellamy in a sweat-soaked t-shirt, but the two really do go hand in hand.

Bellamy and Raven become good friends, and Clarke can’t help but be jealous. It’s not her fault that she has to live a double life, while they can live every day like they mean it.

Clarke mentions it to Octavia.

“Bellamy and Raven sure get along well,” she says, lying on the Blake’s couch.

“They do,” Octavia says, staring at the television. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Clarke says, shifting, and this seems like a bad idea in hindsight. “Definitely.”

“You know, you’ve really done a number on Bellamy,” Octavia says, off-handed, and Clarke pretends to not be affected by it, but doesn’t say anything. Luckily, Octavia keeps going.

“He used to complain about you,” Octavia continues, “now he won’t shut up.”

“About me?” Clarke says, and it’s enough to warrant a look from Octavia.

“Your racing,” she says, and smiles at Clarke’s expression. “But you, too.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, and really doesn’t know what else to say. Octavia turns back towards the TV. There’s something like a knowing smile on her face that worries Clarke, so she turns towards the TV, too, still not settled. 

Clarke tries to focus instead on racing, because that’s what she’s good at. She shows up at less social events and takes more time on the track, having Octavia talk Lincoln into giving her more time there. Clarke tightens up her turns, works on her pedal foot, and makes sure she will always win- and if Lexa ever comes back, that Clarke can beat her, too.

By night, she goes to races. Octavia signs her up for one that has multiple racers- a first for her, but Clarke figures she’s up to the challenge. She arrives at the tracks on time, and Octavia’s there but Bellamy is working.

When the light turns green, Clarke’s off. She takes an easy lead, and is sure this is in the bag when she hears a crash behind her- a loud one.

Clarke crosses the finish line and drives her car off of the track, looking over her shoulder. A car crashed into the walls of the stadium, blocking the cars behind it, and there’s fire. Clarke steps out of the car, and she can see it too clearly- the flames, licking at the tires, the way the car body has crashed onto itself. There’s no way the driver inside isn’t injured, or worse.

Clarke feels something in her stomach, piling up, and suddenly Octavia is beside her.

“Clarke, are you okay?” The voice is desperate and Clarke nods, once. Octavia gets the confirmation and runs over to the other car, where a crowd is already gathering. Clarke hears sirens in the background - how quickly did someone call the police? – and vomits, heaving on the ground.

She had seen the scene, all those years ago. She’d seen pictures. Her mother had been injured, had a concussion, but she was alive, but her father-

Both bodies had been thrown out of the car, and it’s too similar, and Clarke is shaking.

The medics arrive and the man is rushed on to an ambulance. Octavia comes back over, and sees Clarke’s state.

“You’re coming with me,” she says, and picks Clarke up until she can stand. They walk over to visitors parking, where Octavia starts helping Clarke into Octavia’s car- the passenger’s seat. Octavia goes over to the officers and says a few words before going back and getting in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the arena faster than Clarke has ever seen her go.

They go back to the Blake’s. Clarke lies on the couch, sipping a tea Octavia makes her. It’s a start.

“Are you okay, Clarke?” Octavia asks, sitting down next to her, legs crossed. Clarke nods, holding her hot mug with both hands.

“It was just memories,” she says, bringing the cup up to her lips. “It’s nothing new.”

“Well, I’m here for you, alright?” Octavia says, and Clarke smiles.

“I know.”

“You know what we need?” Octavia starts, and Clarke looks over to her. “Ice cream.”

“That sounds like an awesome idea,” says Clarke.

 I’ll go get some, the store’s right down the street,” Octavia says, grabbing her keys. “Do you want to come?”

“No, I’m fine,” Clarke says. “Don’t worry about me.”

Octavia smiles and runs out of the front door, leaving Clarke alone on the couch. She’s only there for a minute, though, when Bellamy enters.

“Hey, Clarke,” he says, laying down his work coat on a hook. “I heard something happened at the track?”

“There was an accident,” she says. “A man’s in critical condition.”

“Oh,” Bellamy says, suddenly laser-focused on Clarke. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Octavia’s going to get ice cream.”

“Sounds perfect,” Bellamy says. “Scoot over.”

Clarke moves and Bellamy sits on the couch next to her, lounging out. He smells like heat and soap, a wildly good combination. Clarke breathes in, deep. His leg is pressed, hot against hers, and he doesn’t move it. He seems tired, and that definitely isn’t helping.

Clarke thinks about it for a moment – reaching over, pulling Bellamy’s mouth onto hers, molding into him on the couch – but shoves it back down. He’s Octavia’s brother, and Clarke has already had her racing fuck-buddy. Besides, Bellamy is more important to her than that. The moment passes, and Clarke breathes out as any tension she felt dissipates into the soft room.

Bellamy switches on the TV and they watch some shitty cooking show until Octavia comes back with ice cream and spoons. They don’t move from the couch for the rest of the night.

 

-

 

Clarke wakes up lying on Bellamy. Her head is on his chest, and his arm is wrapped around her in something that feels right. For a minute, she doesn’t move, because this, honestly, is pretty nice.

She thinks about untangling herself the next minute, and looks at Octavia’s door down the hall- it’s closed. Octavia must have retired when it got late last night, but Clarke and Bellamy just fell asleep as is.

Then her phone rings.

Clarke winces at the coffee table and goes to grab her buzzing iPhone, but the damage is done. Bellamy’s awake- he yawns, and for a moment, as if he’d forgotten where he was, pulls Clarke in closer. He nuzzles his head in her hair, just for a moment, and Clarke doesn’t want to ruin it.

Then Bellamy wakes up.

If he’s shocked or embarrassed, he doesn’t show it. He untangles himself from Clarke with the ease of someone who has done it before, many times. Clarke ignores that, and he way his hand brushes hers as he moves to the kitchen to make some coffee.

Clarke answers the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Clarke. Octavia told me about that racer, sounds like a bummer. Anyway, I’ve got some additions for the Camaro, can we meet somewhere?”

Clarke thinks about it for a second. She left the Camaro at the track last night, but if Bellamy’s willing to drive her…

“Sure, can you meet at the track in twenty?” Clarke says, looking towards the kitchen. Bellamy hears her and looks over, giving a thumbs up when he sees the question in her eyes.

“Sounds good,” Raven says, and hangs up. Clarke looks over at Bellamy, who’s now sipping from a mug 

“Ready to go?” Clarke asks, and Bellamy grunts in response, so yes. She’ll be ready to go, too- after coffee, that is.

 

-

 

When Bellamy and Clarke get to the track, Raven’s already there, and working on Clarke’s car.

“I’ll just be a couple minutes, guys,” she says, pointing to a patch of grass beside the car. “Here, sit down, I’ll be done soon.”

They both step out of Bellamy’s car and sit where Raven pointed, waiting for her to finish the repairs. The day is sunny and the weather is good- it’s easy waiting. Raven finishes a couple minutes later and packs up her tools, pulling something out of her bag before coming over and plopping down next to them.

“I brought beer,” she says, holding out two and keeping one. Bellamy and Raven both twist of their caps and start guzzling. Clarke isn’t as sure, but, _when in Rome._

Clarke starts drinking the frothy liquid, too, and the three lounge about of the grass, taking sips from time to time, but mostly just enjoying the weather and the company. The talk turns to racing, as it always does.

“Clarke, you’re really good, you know,” Raven says, absent-mindedly. “You beat Wick like it was nothing.”

“It’s mostly Bellamy,” Clarke responds. “He’s taught me almost everything I know.”

“Using some of his old knowledge on you, huh?” Raven says, and Clarke frowns.

“What do you mean, old knowledge?”

“Oh, don’t you know? Bellamy used to be a racer, too,” Raven says, taking a sip. “But hasn’t been in a long time.”

“Really?” Clarke says, looking over at Bellamy. “You never told me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not a great story,” he says, leaning back. “I did race, but a long time ago. It was when I was a teenager- I did the crazy stuff, dangerous stuff. Drifted every day. Won races, tons.”

“Why did you ever stop?” Clarke asks, voice quiet. Bellamy looks out onto the track.

“My mom died,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Someone had to take care of Octavia.”

“And he hasn’t raced since,” Raven comments.

“But you would be incredible,” Clarke says, and Bellamy stops her.

“I was. Not so much anymore. Now I teach you, though, and since you’re the real breadwinner of the family, it’s worth it.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, quiet. All three are silent for another moment, but Raven interrupts it.

“I guess this is a sharing circle now,” she says, turning to the other two. “I used to race, too. Not for long, but I tried. It was a pretty good run- then, some idiot shot me.”

“What?” Clarke says, pushing the topic. She feels a vibration in her pocket, and checks the screen. Her mother is calling- she pushes ignore.

“Yeah, it was a drive-by. I don’t even know the guy. I live in a pretty shitty neighborhood, and it was hours before anyone found me. I’m lucky I’m still alive.” Raven finishes, and Clarke looks at her with newfound admiration.

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Oh, I know,” Raven smiles.

Clarke waits a moment, before offering, “Well, I guess it’s my turn.”

Right after, her phone rings again so Clarke puts it on silent.

“My dad was killed in a car crash when I was fifteen,” she says, taking a heavy swig of her beer. The other two keep silent, so she keeps going. “He liked to race, too, way back when, but I didn’t know it at the time.”

“What was his name?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke looks at him.

“Jake.”

“Jake Griffin?”

“You knew him?”

Bellamy smiles. “I had no idea your dad was Jake Griffin. He was amazing- he beat me, once when I was first starting out, a long time ago.”

Clarke is taken aback- she knew her father raced, but not regularly. Not against Bellamy. She smiles, because the idea of her dad and Bellamy racing is a really nice thought.

“It’s in your blood,” Raven says, looking at the sky. “Fate.”

“I wouldn’t call it fate, but it’s definitely something,” Clarke says, still looking at Bellamy. Raven starts talking about a new car when she gets a call, and answers it in front of the other two.

“Hey… yeah, at the track… really?.... there in a sec,” Raven says, and stands up as she’s doing it. She hangs up the phone after and turns towards Bellamy and Clarke.

“Duty calls,” she says, saluting the two still on the ground. “I’ll see you guys later? Bellamy, you’re working tomorrow, right?”

“Yep,” he says, squinting at Raven through the sunlight. Raven nods and picks up her bag. She nods at Bellamy and Clarke and then heads to her car, bag of tools in hand.

“Bye, Raven!’ Clarke calls, and Raven waves back in return. This leaves Clarke and Bellamy on the ground together, and Clarke can’t stop thinking about what Bellamy said.

“I just can’t believe you used to race. You’ve always seemed so separate from real racing,” she says, looking at the track. “You even raced my dad.”

“It was a long time ago,” Bellamy concedes. “Long before I met you.”

“And I became the Speed Queen?” She teases, and Bellamy nods.

“Way before then."

“What did they call you?”

“Cerberus,” Bellamy says, smiling. “Because I was a triple threat.”

“Oh, use your famous drifting to win?  
“Always, princess. Never forget about the drift, it’s the most important thing you could learn.”

“You’re not a half-bad teacher, Blake,” Clarke says, and looks at Bellamy directly. She can’t believe she’s only known him for half a year- it feels like it’s been forever.

“You’re a terrible student,” Bellamy deadpans, and Clarke laughs.

“Shut up,” she says, and it’s like this is all she wants. To sit here, laughing with Bellamy, her Camaro next to her. The realization startles her.

“You’re an excellent student,” Bellamy continues, and his eyes are down. Then, he brings them up, and he’s staring at Clarke, probably harder than he ever has before. She feels something in the air like electricity and is brought, flashing back to that night after practice.

Clarke is about to respond when Bellamy’s phone rings from his pocket. It’s Octavia, of course it is, and he picks it up, because of course he does.

The bond between the Blake’s is perplexing to Clarke. She’s never had a sibling, but if she did, she’d want the bond with them to be as strong as the bond with Bellamy and Octavia.

Octavia needs Bellamy to pick up groceries, it’s nothing, but he still stands up and brushes the dirt off of his legs. Clarke realizes with a start exactly how wonderful it is to have someone like Bellamy in her life, and she smiles. She must be full of realizations today.

“See you,” Clarke says, but Bellamy shakes his head.

“Do you need a ride?”

“No, I can get it from here,” Clarke says, and Bellamy nods. He looks disappointed for a moment, and it makes Clarke feel like she wants nothing more than to go, anywhere with him. But she says nothing.

“Text me when you get home,” he says, walking to his car, and Clarke nods and waves at him.

She lies on the grass a moment longer before getting into her car. It’s been a while since she’s just gone for a joyride, and she could use it.

Clarke turns the radio on and puts the windows down. She reverses out of the parking lot and starts driving down a back road, not paying attention to the speedometer or her thoughts.

A song blasts out of the speakers – _so I’ve been actin’ like I’m seventeen, oh now, come in while we play the seams of you and me –_ and the feeling is the same as the first time she drove, all of those months ago.

The wind’s in her face and Clarke does nothing but drive. She drives for hours, breathing in the fresh breeze mixed with exhaust fumes and the scent of pine teasing her nose, honeysuckle in the air.

The wind’s whipping fast and the sun is dipping lower in the sky. Clarke doesn’t notice though, not really, because her heart is on the open road.

Eventually she’s brought back to Earth, in the form of an empty gas tank.

She didn’t notice the blinking when it started, but now she does and the gas levels are getting low. Dangerously low, in fact, and it worries Clarke, so she pulls over to the side of the road and checks her phone (16 missed calls and a voicemail from her mother?) and calls Miller.

 

-

 

Miller’s not happy about picking Clarke up. Well, he’s usually not happy, but today he’s particularly not happy.

“Sorry, Miller, but I ran out of gas. Were you doing something?”

“Night in,” Miller says through gritted teeth. Now, Clarke actually feels bad- the poor boy deserves some fun.

“With who?” Clarke asks.

“My boyfriend.”

“Better not tell Monty, he’ll get jealous,” Clarke tries to tease, remembering the way Monty and Miller hit it off every time either of them were at Reyes’ Mechanics.

“It is Monty.” Miller answers.

“Oh.”

The car’s silent for a second.

“You know, Miller, we should talk more.”

“Nope.”

“Alright.”                

The ride home is silent, but it’s free of tension. When they arrive at Clarke’s house, she thanks Miller again before exiting the car.

“Of course, it’s my job,” he says, the same line every time. “But I need to get a new one.”

“Oh, Miller, how could we ever get by without you?” Clarke says back, giving him a wave as she walks up the steps into her home.

When she enters the foyer, all of the lights are off.

“Abby?” She calls as she turns on the living room light. “Where are you?”

Complete silence.

This worries Clarke more than anything else- the house is dead. Clarke checks her phone and calls her mom, but a gruff-sounding man picks up.

“Abby?” Clarke says, confused.

“No, this is Jaha Hospital. Is this Clarke Griffin?”  
  
“Yes?” Clarke says, blood turning to ice.

 "Your mother’s been in an accident.”

 And that’s the second time Clarke Griffin’s entire fucking world turns upside-down.

 

-

 

She ends up calling Miller back because she doesn’t know what to do. He double-times it and doesn’t complain for a second, both things that Clarke appreciates immensely. That, she couldn’t handle right now.

Clarke arrives at the hospital just before midnight, and the stars are shining against a dark sky, one that probably can’t be trusted. Clarke steps out of the car and heads towards the front.

Suddenly, as an afterthought, she he texts Bellamy – abby’s been in an accident, at hospital - before entering the doors.

When she gets there, everyone is in a panic.

Apparently, her mother wasn’t the only casualty tonight, and the facility seems short-staffed anyhow. Clarke remembers the white hallways from when her father was admitted that night, remembers the time before that when she would volunteer at the hospital, eyes bright and antiseptic filling her nostrils. She hasn’t stepped a foot in this place since.

She runs to the front desk, her shoulder bag hitting her hip bones dully, a melancholic rhythm. The woman at the front desk is shuffling papers wildly, searching for something, but Clarke doesn’t have time to wonder what.

“I’m Clarke Griffin, an Abby Griffin was just admitted from a car crash,” Clarke says, words rushing out in tandem. The woman looks up, frantic at first but when she sees Clarke’s face, her eyes become gentle.

“Alright, honey, I’m going to need some identification?” She says, holding out a hand. Clarke fishes in her bag and pulls out her driver’s license, giving it to the soft woman. The woman looks it over before handing it back and typing something in her computer.

“Abby Griffin?” She asks, and Clarke nods. “You’re on her emergency list, but there’s no visitors yet. She’s just gone into surgery.”

“She’s alive,” Clarke breathes out in one fluid breath.

“Yes, but she’s in critical condition,” the woman says, but stops again when she looks at the trembling girl in front of her. “I’ll notify you as soon as she’s out of surgery.”

Clarke nods, eyes fluorescent.

“In the meantime, there’s some paperwork I’d like you to fill out. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” The woman asks, handing her a clipboard. Clarke nods again, afraid that if she speaks, she’ll spill right over. “There’s a waiting room to your left.”

Clarke nods and turns to go down the hallway, when she remembers something- 16 missed calls, and a voicemail. Clarke plugs ear buds in and checks her voicemail- sure enough, there’s a message from her mom. Nervously, Clarke hits play.

_Hi Clarke, it’s Abby. I know you hate me right now. I hate me, too. Because I’ve been lying to you this whole time, all of these years, they’ve all been a lie. Clarke- on that night, your father wasn’t the one driving, I was._

Clarke’s heart stops, but the message isn’t over.

_I don’t know how the police thought Jake was driving, but they did, and I was too injured to tell them differently. And then it was too late. I’m sorry I never told you, Clarke, but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry._

The click of the receiver is the only thing that brings her back to Earth.

She doesn’t know what to feel, what to think. Clarke has so many questions that she wants to ask her mother, but everything is hitting her, all at once- the fact that she may never be able to talk to Abby again, the explanation for the wasted life, the confusion as to why she wasted it in the first place- and moreover, the pain of losing a parent- again.

Clarke tries to make it to the waiting room, she really does.

But she doesn’t make it.

Halfway down the hall, the floodgates burst, and suddenly, Clarke Griffin, champion, daughter, survivor, is holding her knees up to her chest as she sits against a wall, dry heaving.

She’s probably there for a full five minutes when thundering footsteps fill the hall, different from the shuffling of scrubs on the linoleum, and suddenly, he’s right next to her, and it smells like him and she clutches on, instinctively.

“Clarke- calm down, listen to me,” Bellamy’s voice is filled with worry but it’s steady, and it works. She lifts her head up, eyes rimmed red and bloodshot, face pale from heaving tears and fingers, curled up so tight she has half-moons indented on her palms.

Bellamy’s kneeled down and leaning over her, a protective stance. The motions seem familiar but she doesn’t know why and that sets off a fresh wave of tears.

Suddenly, arms are around her, holding her as she cries.

“I know what it’s like to lose a mother,” Bellamy says, soft against her. “But you’re not going to.”

They don’t move for minutes, but eventually, Clarke starts to stand. Bellamy doesn’t drop his protective stance around her, and sits next to her in the metal chairs in the waiting room. He’s solid.

There’s silence in that room. Nothing moves past the semi-permeable walls but the ticking of a clock.

“Where’s Octavia?”

Clarke’s voice is hoarse, but it’s usable, and Bellamy shifts in his seat.

“She was at Lincoln’s when I called, but she should be on her way.”

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” she says, voice still low, and Bellamy turns towards her.

“Of course.”

“It was my mother.”

“What?” Bellamy doesn’t pretend to know what she’s talking about, and Clarke is grateful for that.

“She was the one driving.”

Clarke’s head is down because she can barely get the words out, but Bellamy hears. He doesn’t say anything, and Clarke goes on.

“The night of the accident, with my father. She was the one driving, it’s her fault. It has been, all of these years, and she never told me.”

“Maybe she couldn’t accept it herself.”

“But she couldn’t tell me?” Clarke’s eyes are refilling with tears. “I could have been there for her, I wouldn’t have blamed her. Not then.”  
  
“She was scared,” Bellamy says. “It’s only human.”

Their conversation is cut short by the arrival of Octavia, who is quieter than Clarke has ever seen her. Octavia sits on the other side of Clarke and holds her hand, nothing more.

It’s a tense time to wait. Clarke doesn’t know if her mother’s going to be okay, and that’s enough to keep emotions in the room running high.

Around one AM, Clarke falls asleep. She’s exhausted, and emotionally drained, and she needs this.

And she dreams.

It’s hazy, but she doesn’t know if anything in her life can really be concrete anymore.

 

-

 

Clarke wakes up on Bellamy’s shoulder. They’re sitting on separate plastic chairs but are leaning on each other, warm in the cold lobby. He’s so solid, and Clarke is glad he’s there. She needed someone here, sure, but not just anyone- she needed him.

Clarke tries not to wake Bellamy as she looks around the room, checking the wall clock while she’s at it. Octavia’s gone. It’s six AM and Clarke has no idea where she’s gone off to, but then Bellamy groans and shakes his hands out, waking to Clarke’s movements.

“Morning,” he says, lifting off of Clarke and looking over at her with concerned eyes. “Octavia had to go to work, but I’m under strict instructions to text her with any updates. Any news on your mother?”

His hand is rubbing hers in soft circles.

“I just woke up,” Clarke responds, relishing the feeling of him yet still feeling equal parts numb and worry, “But I was about to go check. Come with me?”

Bellamy nods and stands up in rumpled work clothes and messy hair. It’s endearing. They walk out of the waiting room to the front desk, where a new shift is just starting.

“Hi, I’m Clarke Griffin- I’m looking for information of Abby Griffin?” She asks, and before the new shift manager can ask for ID, the old one walks over.

“She’s just gotten out of surgery,” the woman says, holding onto a sticky note. “She’ll make a full recovery.”

Clarke lets out a deep breath she didn’t know she was holding. Maybe Abby was the worst mother possible, maybe she was a catalyst in Jake’s death, but at the same time… Abby is the only family Clarke has left.

The clock ticks on the wall as Clarke asks if visitors are allowed yet. The woman points her to a chart on the wall, and Clarke is way, way early for visiting hours- besides that, Abby needs time to sleep and rest, and Clarke is prepared to give that to her. Clarke thanks the woman and puts her coat on.

“Where are you going?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke shakes her head.

“I just want to go, Bellamy, I want to leave. Can we leave?”

“Of course,” Bellamy says, and they walk through the brightly lit hallways to the parking lot. It’s early, so early, but the sun is rising, and it’s beautiful.

They get in Bellamy’s car, and neither of them say anything, but Bellamy knows where to go. Clarke falls asleep again to the gentle lull of the machine she’s in, but wakes up again when they arrive- the race track. The place where it all truly began.

Bellamy gets out of the car and lies on the hood. It’s cold with the morning chill, and Clarke follows suit after putting her jacket on.

They watch the sun rise.

Clarke can’t help but think about Lexa, because she’s here and she’s a part of this track. But as she goes through the memories, carefully in her head, Clarke realizes that there’s an underlying presence in every one – Bellamy.

There he is, threadbare against the morning light, teaching her the meaning of deep breaking, and what to write as her Dial-in. Or he’s there on his couch, laughing with her as they watch countless hours of cooking shows. Or he’s there in the hospital with her, waiting for the call of a woman he doesn’t even care about, and barely even knows.

He’s there, and he’s intertwined with everything, and suddenly, all of the pieces fall into place.

All of the moments with electric air, the warmth of him any time he was near. The way it felt right when she was lying in his arms, like it never really had before. She’d picked up on them, but never put them together, and now they were all there in rows, shiny and everything she’s ever wanted.

She’s thought about it before, about him before, but always brushed it off, because it wasn’t worth it.

But maybe it is.

“What are you thinking about?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke answers truthfully.

“You.”

“I’m honored,” he says, smiling into the sky, and Clarke leans into the center of the hood a bit more, as to get closer to him.

“You should be.”

There’s really nothing else to say, but the sky is pink and Clarke’s mother is alive so she reaches over and grabs Bellamy’s hand, intertwining her fingers with his. It’s not so much a romantic gesture as it is a gesture of “I’m here for you, you’re not alone”, but it sends the message across. Clarke gives Bellamy a look, and she knows that he understands everything she wants to say, and everything she can’t.

The sun has almost risen, and Clarke Griffin is on the hood of a car, holding hands with a boy. The air’s getting warmer by the second and she can see her own car, parked across the lot. The good old 67’ Camaro, it’s lived and breathed here just as much as she has, and she feels something like deep affection for the thing.

“You were right,” Clarke says. “It’s about the drift. We’re all just caught in the drift.”

“We might be,” he says truthfully, and that’s good enough for her.

The sun is beautiful but Clarke knows why she’s really here.

“Bellamy, do you have any gas?”

 

-

 

When it comes down to it, all that really matters in the world is a girl, her car, and a long, empty stretch of highway.

Bellamy did have gas, and he helped fill her car up. He also has very, very soft lips, which Clarke became well acquainted with before she left. But now Bellamy’s back at the track with promises of calls and messages later, and anyways, they have their whole lives for that.

For now, Clarke’s only real concern is this concrete road.

She can’t help but think about Jake all of the time, but that’s not a bad thing. She’s finally letting go, and driving helps, because she’s closer to him than she ever was before.

The speedometer is far over the limit but she’s not worried. This is where Clarke belongs.

Possibilities are endless. After Abby gets better, Clarke can teach her how to drive, teach her not to be scared of the wheel, because the past is the past but forgiveness is what will stay with you.

Clarke won’t need Miller anymore, which she thinks will be the best news she’s going to give anyone. Besides, he’s going to need the free time, especially with his new boyfriend.

A week ago, Clarke put in a good work for Wick, and if everything went correctly, he should be getting a call today about drag racing- on a real track. Legally. Clarke knows he deserves it, and Raven deserves seeing the people in her life happy.

Raven- Raven was the one that started this all, and Clarke can’t thank her enough. Without a snappy girl who commented on a cracked phone screen, none of this would have happened, and Clarke would still be doing evenings at soirees she never really cared about.

Maybe Clarke will sign up for school, again. She’s not that old, after all, and she always wanted to be an artist, or a doctor, or something, and now that she has racing on the side, school would be immensely less stressful. It’s worth a shot.

It’s funny, thinking about everything, when all that really matters is the sun, rising in the sky, and the open road, and the music pounding in her eardrums – _saw it written, and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way_ – and the way her Camaro is almost out of gas as she flies down the highway.

Clarke sticks one hand out of the window, because it’s warm and she’s happy. It’s the daytime, and her mother is alive, and her friends are there, and she’s driving, on her own, like she always wanted to.

In some strange way, it’s like her father’s death didn’t actually push her entire world out of orbit.

And maybe she is caught in the drift. Maybe she’s at the point where everything is the lowest and there’s probably no return- maybe she has given up.

But Clarke knows that she’s already built up enough momentum that she’ll keep going.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this beast for the 100 Big Bang and that's basically the only reason I was motivated to finish. I'm in love with the idea of Clarke being a secret adrenaline junkie- however, I know next to nothing about cars, so if the details were please don't sue, I'm way too poor for a lawyer. I hope you guys enjoyed because this is my longest and most involved fic EVER, so please, please, kudos/comment/bookmark if you did, as that's basically my lifeblood. Thanks to all! Love you guys!
> 
> tumblr: damnmechanics.tumblr.com


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